"Since the party, have you spoken to anyone at all, any of the Bloodhounds, that is?"
"Only Jessica and AJ. this morning on the towpath. I told you about that." She was becoming twitchy, making little nervous movements, probably regretting what she had told.
"You met them this morning?" Bert said. "Was that wise?"
"They just happened to be there, love. It wasn't planned. I couldn't avoid saying something."
Diamond took over again. "You didn't tell us what was said. Was the incident discussed?"
"I'm not sure." Swiftly, Shirley-Ann corrected herself. "I mean, yes, it was. Oh, I do feel dreadful about this now. AJ. said we were going to erase it from our minds, and I sort of agreed. He said it must have been done by someone with a warped sense of humor. Jessica was still furious about it and said she wouldn't have harmed Sid in a million years. She said if the bastard-I'm using her words now-if the bastard pointed the finger at her again, she was going straight to the police."
"You've done her a good turn, then," Diamond summed up. "Saved her the trouble." He smiled.
Shirley-Ann didn't smile back.
"You didn't tell her about the spots on Rupert's beret?"
"Good Lord, no!"
"And you won't be mentioning what you saw to anyone else? Not Polly, not Milo, not Rupert, not anyone?" Having secured a nod from Shirley-Ann, he turned to Bert. "Nor you, sir. I'd like us all to be clear about that."
Chapter Twenty-nine
Outside the Assembly Rooms, where they had parked, Diamond asked Julie, "What did you make of that?"
"The story about the beret?"
"Yes."
"It's got to be true, hasn't it? And we can check. Even if Rupert has noticed by now, and been busy with the white spirit, some microscopic paint spots are going to remain. Forensic will find them. Simple."
"Simple?"
"Well?"
"First, catch your beret." He stood by the car, jingling the keys, coming to a decision. "Look, Hay Hill can't be more than three minutes away. We can cut through by the toyshop, and it's just at the end of Alfred Street. We'll leave the car here."
Halfway down the passage called Saville Row, he paused to study the menu in the window of La Lanterna, in the amber glow of the streetlamp that gives the place its name. His gastric juices were threatening mutiny since being exposed to the aroma of Shirley-Ann's casserole. For a man of his appetite, it had been too long since lunch. "I don't want to spend the rest of the evening over this damned beret. It may be just a distraction."
"Would you rather leave it to me?" Julie offered.
"No, I want to see the man, as well as his beret." He suppressed the thought of food and started walking again. "To tell you the truth, Julie, I'm mightily intrigued. This kind of schoolboy stuff, writing slogans on windows, doesn't fit my impression of Rupert at all."
"Too sneaky, you mean?"
"You've got it. He gives it straight from the shoulder, whatever his other failings may be. If he had his suspicions about Jessica, he'd tell her, wouldn't he?"
Julie agreed with a murmur. "Unless he's the killer himself."
He didn't respond to that. He walked on in silence past antique shops that had iron shutters over their windows.
"Deflecting suspicion," Julie explained.
"I get the point."
"If he felt we were closing in, he might do something like this in desperation."
After another long and awkward pause, he said, "You know, it's a curious thing: Although Rupert is the one disreputable character in the Bloodhounds, the jailbird, the barfly, the cause of all the upsets, I haven't seriously cast him as the killer up to now. Maybe it's time I did."
In the evening gloom, Hay Hill looked and felt even less enchanting than it had on their previous visit. A strong breeze was gusting between the houses, disturbing dead leaves, paper scraps, and a discarded beer can that rattled against the railings before dropping into someone's basement. No lights were at Rupert's windows. The only response was from Marlowe the dog, barking at them through the space where the letter flap had been.
They decided to ask at the local. The landlord at the Lansdown Arms thought they might find Rupert in the Paragon Bar at this stage of the day. The waitress in the Paragon said he'd had a skinful at lunchtime, and he was probably out to the world until later. He usually came in sometime after seven. Sabotaged by appetizing whiffs of seafood cooking, Diamond was willing to wait there for Rupert. He persuaded Julie into discovering if the Paragon's "Meal in Itself"-of French fish soup with crbutons, cheese, and grain bread-was a fair description. In Julie's case, it was.
Julie asked him how the kitten was settling in.
"Too well," said Diamond. "He really likes the football on TV. I'm trying to watch, and he's up against the screen patting it with his paw. He can't understand why the little men won't let him have the ball."
She smiled. "Has he got a name yet?"
"Most of the names I've called him aren't complimentary. He nicks things and stashs them away: keys, combs, pens, watches, a toothbrush. I found a stack of little objects in one of my shoes. You go to put them on in the morning, and your toes hit an obstruction."
"A genuine cat burglar?" said Julie. "You ought to call him Raffles."
"Raffles!" His eyes lit up. "He might approve of that."
Customers crowded in. Most of Bath seemed to know the tiny bar. Rupert had not appeared yet. To justify keeping the table (there were only three in this tiny room), Diamond ordered himself an extra dish of crepes with trout, broccoli, and cheese filling. But eventually, about seven forty-five, they paid their bill and left.
More knocking at the house in Hay Hill succeeded only in goading Marlowe into hurling himself against the door.
They returned to the car and drove up Bathwick Hill to Claverton, a mile east of the city, to interview the only suspect they had not met.
Polly Wycherley lived alone in a semi named Styles in a quiet road behind the university. A few pink rose blooms were enduring October staunchly in the small front garden.
A halogen floodlight came on as they walked up the path. "Better defended than I am," commented Julie.
"She may not have two large dogs."
Diamond glanced up and noted the burglar alarm high on the front of the house.
But no dogs. They heard slippered footsteps respond to the doorbell, then bolts being drawn. The door opened as far as the safety chain permitted, and a suspicious-sounding voice asked who it was. Diamond gave their names and presented his ID at the narrow opening.
From inside came the sound of the chain being unfastened. "Before you open up," Diamond said, "are you Mrs. Wycherley, ma'am?"
She confirmed that she was.
"That's all right, then," he said, and added, with a wink at Julie, "we can't be too careful."
Polly Wycherley didn't take it as the waggish remark it was meant to be. Opening the door fully, she said, "That's a fact. You hear of such horrific things these days. You can't even feel safe in your own home."
And no wonder, Diamond thought when he stepped into the hall. The walls were hung with objects that suggested anything but safety: a Zulu shield and crossed assegais; a leopard-skin; a war drum; and what looked like a witch doctor's mask. It was quite a relief to pass into the living room, filled mainly with bookshelves, each volume protected by a transparent wrapper that Polly must have fitted herself. The relief was short-lived when he caught sight of some of the titles: Kiss Me Deadly, The Beast Must Die, Blood Money, and The Body in the Billiard Room. On one of the shelves was a box opened to display a set of dueling pistols. Here was your sweet silver-haired lady, bolting her door against the horrific world outside before settling down with a grisly murder, surrounded by her collection of weapons. Mind, a sense of order prevailed. But on the whole he preferred the clutter at Shirley-Ann's.
"I know practically nothing about books," he said, to get things started, speaking from an uncomfortable Hepplewhite-style sofa with woo
den arms and back, "but this looks to be a fine collection, Mrs. Wycherley. You obviously take care of it, too."
"You mean my plastic covers? They protect the dust jackets," she explained as if that were self-evident.
"But isn't that unfair to dust jackets?"
"Why?"
"They don't want protecting. They want to get on with their proper job."
She saw the logic in that and laughed. "They lose their value if the jackets are damaged."
"So this is an investment?"
"It's more than that," she said. "I couldn't put into words the excitement to be had from finding a good first edition."
"In its jacket?"
"The jackets are indispensable."
"But the book you read is the same whether it's a clean copy like these or some dog-eared old paperback from a charity shop."
"I have hundreds of those," she said. "I keep my reading copies in a spare room upstairs."
"You don't read these?"
"No."
"What have you got upstairs? Just crime?"
She smiled. "My dear superintendent, there's nothing unusual in that. People have always enjoyed a good mystery, from prime ministers to ordinary folk like me. I didn't have so much time for reading when my husband was alive. We traveled a lot. But in the last twelve years I've become quite addicted."
Diamond had no need to steer the conversation. Polly moved smoothly on to the prescribed route.
"That was how I came to found the Bloodhounds. You go to a function and meet other enthusiasts and find you have a lot in common. We've had six very enjoyable years. This dreadful tragedy is going to put an end to it, I fear. I've already canceled the next meeting. Just imagine! We'd all be staring at each other wondering who was capable of a real murder. You couldn't possibly talk about books. Let me get you a nice cup of tea."
"No, thanks-"
"Then perhaps Inspector Hargreaves…?"
"Nor me," said Julie. "We just had something."
"But a cup of tea always goes down well. Or coffee? I'm due for one about now."
Diamond said firmly, "You don't mind if we talk about the evening Mr. Towers was killed?"
"I do have decaffeinated, if you prefer," Polly offered, unwilling to be denied. It was almost a point of principle to provide hospitality. Perhaps she wanted time in the kitchen to marshal her thoughts.
"You were one of the first at the meeting, I understand."
She gave a nod. "To make up for the previous week, when I was late. Stupidly, I dropped my car keys down a drain in New Bond Street. I got them back, but I hate being late for anything, so I made a special effort this time. I do wish I could get you something. A drink?"
"No, thanks. You drove down to the meeting?"
"I always do. I could take the minibus, I suppose, but it does involve some walking, quite late in the evening, and you can't…"
"… be too careful."
She smiled. "I was the first to arrive. Sid came soon after."
"Did you notice his behavior? Did he seem nervous?"
"No more than usual. In fact, rather less. He actually said things a couple of times during the meeting."
"Do you remember what?"
She fingered a button of her cardigan. "I can try." After a pause, she said, "Yes, at the beginning, someone wondered who was missing, and Sid mentioned Rupert, and added that Rupert was always late-which is true."
"Anything else?"
Polly dredged her memory. "We were talking about the missing stamp. Miss Chilmark had suggested we might be able to throw some light on the mystery. Someone-Jessica, I'm sure-came up with the theory that some fanatical collector may have taken it. She suggested he might be a middle-aged man with a personality defect, and Sid interrupted to say that it might equally have been a woman."
"Sid said as much as that?"
"No, he just interrupted with the words 'Or woman,' but that was essentially the point, and quite fair. I don't think he spoke again until nearly the end of the meeting. However, he did produce a paper bag at an opportune moment. I expect you've heard about Miss Chilmark's attack?"
Diamond nodded. "But let's stay with Sid. You said he spoke at the end?"
"I mean after the discovery of the stamp. There was a difference of opinion as to whether Milo should go directly to the police. He was in two minds, you see. He felt he might come under suspicion and-please don't take offense at this-several of them clearly believed he might be treated roughly. In fact, only two of us, Miss Chilmark and I, were for Milo going to the police. Sid was asked, and what he said was that he could stay quiet-which nobody doubted."
This was the first Diamond had heard of a split of opinion at the end. "If the majority favored staying quiet, how was it that Milo came in to report the matter?"
She smiled, and Rupert's comment came back to Diamond: "Look at her eyes when she smiles." She said in a self-congratulatory way, "Good sense prevailed. Milo listened to us and saw that he had a public duty. The others may have been willing to turn a blind eye-"
"But you weren't?"
"It didn't come to that. Nobody made any threats. Milo reached his own decision."
Diamond understood now. Democracy wouldn't have worked. Polly and Miss Chilmark had felt they had a public duty. Milo had been left with no option.
"Getting back to Sid," he said, "the more I hear about him, the more I think he wasn't the doormat that his quiet behavior suggested."
"That's a fact," Polly said firmly. "Sid may have been reticent, but he was no fool. He knew as much as any of us about detective stories, with the possible exception of Milo. John Dickson Carr was his special interest."
"I've seen the books in his flat."
This drew an interested "Oh?" from Polly. "I always imagined he must have a collection."
"They wouldn't be of use to you," he told her. "Most of them had no jackets, and those that did were withdrawn from libraries. Do you collect Dickson Carr, ma'am?"
She waved vaguely across the room. "I have a few of the collectable ones. He was very prolific."
"A writer of crafty plots, I gather. I can see why the locked room stories appealed to Sid, considering his line of work."
"As a security officer? Actually I doubt if he came across that sort of thing working for Impregnable. It doesn't often happen in real life, does it?"
Diamond let that pass. He had a sense that Polly was doing her best to manipulate the interview now that she was over the surprise of their visit. The image she presented, of the homely woman in twinset, tweed skirt, and slippers, with her soft curls, teapot, and sweet smile, had slipped once or twice already. He remembered the reservations about her that he'd got from Jessica Shaw and Miss Chilmark. "I understand Sid joined the Bloodhounds on the advice of his doctor."
"Dr. Newburn, yes. My doctor, too. A lovely person. Dead now, unhappily." The saccharine smile appeared again. "Of natural causes. Dr. Newburn got in touch with me and asked if I thought it would work. He knew of my involvement. Sid was recovering from a breakdown. I said I couldn't promise anything, but, he was welcome to come along, and I'd make sure he wasn't put under more stress. My conscience is clear in that regard, anyway."
Spoken serenely, ignoring the logic that Sid's introduction to the Bloodhounds had led to his death.
"This breakdown. What was the cause?"
"I couldn't tell you. He did let drop the fact that his house had once been burgled. A horrible thing to happen to anybody. Would that lead to a breakdown, do you suppose?"
"Your guess is as good as mine, ma'am." After a suitable pause he said, in the tone of someone testing a theory, "I'd appreciate your reaction to a thought I had. We know that Sid enjoyed a locked room puzzle. I'm wondering whether the reason he drove to the boatyard was simple curiosity, to work out for himself what must have happened. What you had was a Dickson Carr setup. Milo did make this clear?"
"Indeed, yes. He showed us the key to the padlock and said where he'd bought it and how impossible i
t was for anyone to have a spare key."
"Quite a challenge for a man like Sid, a student of the locked room puzzle. Trained in security, too. The question is: Did he go down to Limpley Stoke to have a quiet look around the narrowboat and see for himself?"
"You could well be right," said Polly.
"Then either he surprised the murderer or the murderer followed him there and surprised him. That's the logic of it, isn't it? Either way, Sid got the worst of it."
"Poor Sid," said Polly. She got up and went to a sideboard and took out a box of chocolates. Her need to be seen as hospitable was almost pathological. "All soft centers," she said as she offered them.
Diamond shook his head, and Julie took her cue from him. "But don't let us stop you, ma'am," Diamond said. He was still weighing up this woman, trying to picture her wielding a windlass at the unsuspecting Sid. Was it plausible? She was sixty, at least, short and overweight, with a tendency to wheeze when she breathed, yet if she had caught him from behind, say, or bending forward, one blow could have done the job. A couple of blows were what the pathologist had reported.
The motive was harder to pin down. What about opportunity, then?
"Just for the record, Mrs. Wycherley, would you mind telling me where you were between the hours of nine and midnight on that evening, the evening Sid Towers was killed? I have to ask everybody."
She took the question placidly enough. "Here, for most of the time. I drove back here directly after the meeting. It's in the statement I made to the sergeant who called."
"Directly?"
"Well, I spoke to one of the others for a short time. Who was it? Miss Chilmark, I think. I thanked her for supporting me. We agreed it was the proper course of conduct. She's a difficult person, I have to say, but on this occasion I was glad to have her on my side against the Young Turks in our club."
"Were you the last to leave the crypt?"
"I generally am. I like to close the door myself. Miss Chilmark was just ahead of me. Don't misunderstand me. We probably didn't talk for more than a couple of minutes after the others had gone."
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